This lonely ocean that covers the parking lot: the fill air of only counted breaths spells time's word. We live in the love of our distractions.
Water pours from expressive skies on expense account population. Story files into township practice, looking thru windows at the world of weather, time, and night. Finally garden seems riled by blue, today, after days of yellow buoyancy.
In the miser field of granting wishes, soon the daytime cools. We will make ourselves astonished. A creek bends the landscape and presses rock into features of time. There was a bird in the sky, a pleasant rocket. Some will walk away rather than lose gravity's touch. Some won't.